Retreat, Hell! Part 77

Because she has finally picked up on Mother Mitch.e.l.l's-or her mother's-suspicions that I am the reason she doesn't want to go home to Kan . . . Arkansas. That's why, stupid.

"Oh, how awful!" Bab's mother said, sounding sincere.

"She was on an Air Force medical supply aircraft that crashed," Pick said.

"A nurse?"

"No, ma'am, she was a war correspondent."

"Jeanette Priestman," Babs Mitch.e.l.l said. "Of the Chicago . . . Chicago . . . what?" what?"

"Tribune," Pick said. "The Pick said. "The Chicago Tribune. Chicago Tribune. And it's Priestly, not Priestman." And it's Priestly, not Priestman."

"Sorry," Babs Mitch.e.l.l said.

"Don't be silly."

"My son and his wife, Major Pickering," Mr. Mitch.e.l.l said, "I still don't really understand why, recently became Episcopalians. The funeral service will be an Episcopal service. Are you familiar with-"

"Yes, sir," Pick said. "I was even an altar boy once."

"Were you really?"

He's pleased. He doesn't think I'm trying to get-or have already been-in his son's widow's pants.

"Yes, sir, I was. And before that I sang in the choir of a church also called Saint Paul's."

"Really?"

"Yes, sir."

I think I just made the first goal for Protestant Episcopal Christian virtues.

h.e.l.l, make sure!

"Jeanette's body is being returned later this week," Pick said. "So I suppose you could say that Babs and I are trying to support each other. . . ."

Unless, of course, you are aware of the McGrory theory concerning two people of opposite s.e.xes who have both experienced an emotional trauma.

There was a Cadillac hea.r.s.e outside Saint Paul's Church, through the windows of which a flag-draped casket was visible. And a flower car. And several more Marine-green staff cars. And half a platoon of Marines, in dress blues. Two-thirds of them were carrying Garands, and the others were apparently pallbearers.

A function normally performed by one's brother officers.

But they're off on a Far East Deployment and thus unavailable.

Mrs. Babs Mitch.e.l.l took Major Malcolm Pickering's arm as they followed Mr. and Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l and Babs's mother down the aisle of the church toward a reserved pew near the altar.

As Major Pickering dropped to the kneeling bench- So you haven't done this in years.

So maybe you're a little hypocritical.

So what? The point of the exercise is to convince Mr. and Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l, Babs's mother, and of course Mrs. Babs Mitch.e.l.l herself that you are not only a fine Marine Corps officer and gentleman, but a Christian gentleman who wouldn't even think of nailing Mrs. Babs Mitch.e.l.l.

-he saw sitting directly across the aisle from him, in dress blues, Brigadier General Clyde W. Dawkins, USMC. Beside him was Mrs. Dawkins, looking like a slightly older version of the officers' wives who had been in Babs's- Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l's-apartment.

Both looked at him. Mrs. Dawkins smiled. He smiled back.

Marines carried the casket in and set it on a catafalque in the aisle.

The ceremony began.

It was, Pick thought, mercifully brief.

The Marines carried the casket back down the aisle.

Captain Kane came to the pew and indicated that it was now time for him to lead the widow back down the aisle and out of the church.

Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l took his arm, and he did so.

She didn't cry. But that doesn't mean she's not all torn up.

How do I know that?

Does it matter? I do.

On the slow drive to the cemetery, Mr. Mitch.e.l.l said, "I was surprised the ceremony was so short."

Well, that's the way we Whiskey-palians do it. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, and out of the church and into the ground.

"That's what d.i.c.k liked about the Episcopal church," Mrs. Babs Mitch.e.l.l said. "The . . . I guess the word is 'liturgy.' I thought it was a beautiful ceremony. And d.i.c.k would have loved it when they sang 'The Marines' Hymn' as a hymn."

The two squads of Marines who would fire the salute were already lined up, standing at parade rest.

Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l took Major Pickering's arm and he led her from the limousine to a line of folding chairs set up under a tent.

The pallbearers carried the casket from the hea.r.s.e and began to set it down on the casket-lowering machine.

"Oh, G.o.d," Mrs. Babs Mitch.e.l.l said softly. "I guess this is really it. Oh, d.i.c.k!"

When Pick looked down at her, tears were rolling down her cheeks and she had a handkerchief to her mouth, trying to hold back the sobs.

Without thinking about it, Pick put his arm around her shoulders.

Then she gave in to the sobs.

Pick gave her a comforting squeeze.

She took a deep breath, exhaled audibly, took the handkerchief from her mouth, and looked up at him.

"Thank you," she said. "I'll be all right."

He removed his arm from her shoulders.

The priest took up his position at the head of the casket and began the graveside service.

You're going to like this even less, Mr. Mitch.e.l.l. This usually takes about two minutes, tops.

In the limousine on the way back to the Ocean View, Mrs. Babs Mitch.e.l.l did not cry. She sat across from Pick with the folded flag in her lap, stroking it with her finger tips.

She had cried three times during the graveside ceremony. First when General Dawkins, on behalf of a grateful nation, handed her the folded flag.

Then she had cried when the bugler played taps.

I felt a little weepy then myself.

And she had cried when the firing squad did their little ballet, which had put Major Pickering in the probably prohibited-by-regulation position of holding a weeping female closely with his left arm while he saluted with his right. Every time there had been the crack of twenty blank cartridges going off simultaneously, Mrs. Babs Mitch.e.l.l had cringed, and he could feel her bosom pressing against him.

On the curved driveway outside the Ocean View, Major Pickering told Mrs. Babs Mitch.e.l.l that he was sorry but he was going to have to get back to the hospital.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. But my pa.s.s is about to expire."

"Thank you for coming," Mrs. Babs Mitch.e.l.l said.

"It was an honor."

"No, I mean it," she said. "Thank you."

She stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek, and he felt again the pressure of her bosom against him.

"I'll come to see you," she said. "All right?"

"That would be very nice."

Now, why the f.u.c.k did I say that?

You're a highly skilled liar with a good imagination.

Why couldn't you come up with something clever that would cut this off once and for good right now?

He shook hands with Mrs. Babs Mitch.e.l.l's mother and Captain Mitch.e.l.l's parents, and turned and walked down the curved driveway toward a taxi stand without looking back.

XVIII.

[ONE].

THE PRESIDENT'S OFFICE BLAIR HOUSE PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE WAs.h.i.+NGTON, D.C. 1900 2 NOVEMBER 1950 "Who's this Lieutenant Colonel . . . Vandenburg?" the President of the United States asked after reading McCoy's message.

"He's the officer the Pentagon sent to see if General Dean could be rescued," Major General Ralph Howe said. "I suggested that he be transferred to the CIA to keep him out of Willoughby's hands."

"I remember now. It says here he's the Seoul station chief," Truman said.

"After I got your message about him, Mr. President," Walter Bedell Smith said, "I told General Bradley that was your desire. He placed him on indefinite duty with the CIA, and I so notified General Pickering. I can only suppose General Pickering designated him as Seoul station chief."

"Good man?"

"General Bradley thought he was the best man for that job," Smith said. "I mean, trying to get General Dean back."

"Ralph?"

"First-cla.s.s man, Mr. President. I understand why he and the Killer get along so well."

"So well that he'd go along with . . . I'm not going to call that young man 'Killer' . . . McCoy McCoy because they're pals?" because they're pals?"

"No, sir," Howe said firmly. "He would not."

"Vandenburg's the fellow who stole General Walker's airplane, right?"

"Mr. President, I said nothing of the kind," Howe said, smiling. "But I admit that he's probably justifiably high on the list of suspects."

"Huh," the President snorted. "Well, you say he's a good man, and he goes along with McCoy all the way. Where does that leave us?"

"I think there is no longer any question that there are substantial numbers of Red Chinese in Korea, Mr. President, " Howe said.

"I never really doubted that. What about this business about the Chinese sending us a message?"

"I don't know, sir. I'd bet on McCoy."

"Okay. Let's take that as a given. So what do we do about it?"

"First thing this morning, Mr. President," Smith said, "I checked with the Pentagon. There was nothing in the overnight messages from the Dai Ichi Building suggesting that the Supreme Command has changed its mind about the Red Chinese coming in."

"That makes things difficult, doesn't it?" Truman said. "I find myself in the position of agreeing with a major-and a lieutenant colonel-and disagreeing with a five-star general who Ralph, General Pickering, and ninety percent of the American people think is a military genius."

"Mr. President, may I make a suggestion?"

"I'm wide open for suggestions."

"You could have the Army urgent-message General MacArthur saying they have intelligence suggesting there has been a substantial movement of ChiCom forces to the border and probably across it. And what does General MacArthur think?"

"Why not just send him a message saying the CIA has interrogated four senior Chinese Communist officers?" Truman asked. Then he added: "Don't bother to answer that. I can't do that, because they know who the CIA people there are, and we're right back to me telling a five-star military genius he's wrong."